Friday, November 19, 2010

Catherine Keener is Not my English Teacher

Dear Blob,
One of the many interesting things about living in LA is the frequent celebrity run-ins & sightings us peasants are exposed too. While it takes someone very special, like a Amy Sedaris or Jennifer Saunders, to nauseate me with excitement & celebrity-worship, I am still affected by everyday contact with the famous; whether its the surrealism of the moment, eating licorice whips with Alice Cooper or the simple puzzling distraction whether Catherine Keener was my teacher in high school.

That was yesterday at Whole Foods. Perusing the cold-prepared case for a snack, I glanced at the tall, bookish lady I'd sidled up to. Reaching for olive tapanade, I instantly recognized her as a Marin Academy Instructor & then realized she taught Steve Carrell how to Do It, not High School English.

I am always struck with indecision at the Whole Foods prepared-snack cases, debating the value of chard-salad vs. grape leaves. As I stood beside Catherine Keener, considering olive tapanade, concern I was lingering too long struck me; She was lingering too and, stricken with self-consciousness, I worried she thought I was lingering because she was lingering.

Impulsively, I decided to serve Olive Tapanade appetizers at my upcoming Asian-themed dinner party and skittered towards the bread, simultaneously judging my future Italian-Asian fusian dinner party I was hosting for a professional Entertainer-Stylist I'd, not only never met, but was hoping would bestow me with a Ukulady Crafts-For-Kids TV Show, and fretting that Catherine Keener thought I was following her, as I came face to face with her over the baguette-bin. I also worried about the length of the future-sentence describing this moment.

She was dressed down, in fleece, makeup-free & reminded me of a weary Marin MILF. I admire Catherine Keener; her career choices, performances, etc.... While I was not breathless, as Coach Wolf from Strangers With Candy, had made me at Coffee Bean nor dazed & confused as Lindsey Lohan stepping-out-of-an-elevator-as-I-stepped-in, made me, I was struck with a feeling further word-research-is-needed, to describe. Weirdness, awkwardness...

I rushed away from the bread, hopefully settling Catherine's worry that I was a obsessive fan following her around Whole Foods; In my rush to get away from Catherine I reconsidered the Italian-Asian fusion dinner, deposited the tapanade & baguette on top of over-priced artisan chocolate, hastily grabbed an expensive juice & checked out.

It's awkward shopping alongside celebrities. They should have their own grocery stores, so's not to distract us peasants from shopping duties. In a sense, they do. The Santa Monica Whole Foods is primarily for the upper-class. Plastic-surgeried old ladies, foreheads smooth, eyes unnaturally stretched backwards, clutch their withered-at-the-neck husbands, who are clad in inappropriate-for-their-age skin-tight v-neck black tee-shirts.

Maybe today I'll go to yoga with ladies from CSI again.
Love The Ukulady
ps: The impulse-purchase of expensive juice is a whole other issue.

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